I met a scholar from an English class
Who said: In dusty archives, seldom passed,
There lies a sonnet, once of mighty fame.
Near it, on yellowed pages, time-worn, lame,
The dedication reads: “Percy Bysshe Shelley,
Who spoke to power through his burning hymns,
Few now recall, save students, grudgingly.
He wrote of Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on his verse, ye readers, and despair!”
Round the decay of that poetic feat,
Bare margins stretch, and in the desert there
His words drift forgotten, like windblown heat.